


Protocol

by hellkitty



Category: Elysium (2013)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Dry Orgasm, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, what even are these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm....just gonna go with 'kink bingo' mechanical/technological.  And pretend like that's an excuse.  Also, disclaimer: I'm still HOOOOOOORRIBLE at writing human porn.</p>
<p>Might want to add a 'don't try this at home' unless you've done edging play before.  </p>
<p>Oh shit I've said too much. >_> </p>
            </blockquote>





	Protocol

The world was black for a long time. Black and scorched and smelling of shorted-out circuitry, an acrid sting that permeated every iota of awareness Max had. He was barely aware of existing, barely capable of forming his last memory: the mercenary, leaning over him, and the white-blue-yellow arc of the taser.

And then nothing, a long stretch, like receding or falling down a long, dark tunnel, until the light and the heat receded to a pinpoint, too small to see at all.

Perfume.  A scent like flowers and spices and sunshine, a pink scent, somehow, with an undertone of sweet-bitter oleander.  It cut through him, pulling him awake, sharp and strong enough to cleave the darkness.  

He stirred, feeling himself in his body again, limbs stone-dumb and stiff, feeling air, cool and thin.  Recirculating air, he realized, like from a ship or...Elysium.

His eyes flared open, and for a moment the white of the room was too much, his pupils contracting, and he was blind to everything except pain.  

But Max could still hear, and he heard the staccato clicks of footsteps moving around him. And a voice, a woman’s timbre, a velvety sort of alto. “Ah. You’re awake.”

“If that’s what you call it.”  His voice was a croak, his mouth and tongue feeling thick and clumsy as he shaped the words.  Max turned his face to the voice, his eyes finally pulling into focus on her flax-gold hair, the fine contours of her face. A cold face, with colder eyes, which studied him like a thing.

“Da Costa, Max,” she said, coolly, mouth coming to rest in a sort of self-assured smile. She could smell him, from here, the sweat and musk that could only come from Earth, a sort of half-feral scent, so unlike the cologned and washed and almost prissy men of Elysium. “You are aware that we don’t allow felons on this habitat.”

“Who’re you?”  His hands were tingling, that sort of semi-awful feeling of pins-and-needles.  He clenched his fists, realizing he was restrained, arms and legs bound, and he was held, upright, weight suspended from the exosuit.

“Defense Secretary Delacourt,” she said, crisply.  “But to you, ‘ma’am’ will suffice.” Still, the introductions were a formality, and there was a certain power in formalities.

Fuck that, he thought, dully. “The fuck you want from me?”

One corner of her mouth curled, half in distaste at the profanity, half in amusement. “I cannot believe your imagination is so limited that you can’t guess.”

He could guess, even through the lingering haze of the taser.  And something else, a sort of chemical fog that tasted like zinc. He could see--and sense--the needle of an intravenous line in his arm, cool and aloof, pushing God only knows what into him.  “The codes.” It had to be; Spider had said as much.  She didn’t look like the type who gave a shit about Carlyle--or anyone--as a person.

“In time,” she said, moving around him.  He was taller than her, especially now, suspended, but she knew she had the power. He couldn’t move, beyond turning his head, flexing his hands uselessly.  He could feel her as she moved behind him, like a pressure-change in the air, twitching at the sudden touch to the cable on the back of his head. “I’m more interested,” she said, “In how you knew.”  Her fingers traveled up the cable, tracing the meandering scar on his scalp with light, cool fingers that sent shivers through him.  

“How I knew what?”

She laughed as if at some private joke.  “How you knew what the late Citizen Carlyle had.”

“I didn’t.  Just...bankcodes. Passwords.”  All the shit Spider had wanted. Access. Money.  Not this. There was no point trying to lie about it; not at this point.

The heels of her shoes clicked as she circled him again, looking up into his face, her features small, elegant, almost pinched, the opposite of his own--big, broad, rough.  He wondered, through the haze he couldn’t find his way free from, if this was what Elysium was, if they all looked like her, if he’d ever had a chance.

“Really.” Her voice was flat, and she shot him a look before crossing over to some table or monitor he couldn’t see. Her eyes raked over him again, as she typed something, some command onto a keypad.

He felt a push of something in his right arm, where he’d seen the needle, and then a sudden rush of warmth, tingling and kind of pleasurable, like all his nerves waking up, and he found himself tensing, as though waiting for pain.

It wouldn’t come. Pain, at least. But still, watching his body tense was fascinating, the way she could watch the muscles ripple and shift under his skin.  A big, powerful animal, she thought, and entirely under her control.

“Are you sure of that, Max Da Costa?”  The chemicals had time to do their work: she could practically see the spread, the flush of arousal they brought with them, a warm, tingling rush. Pain was too unsubtle; pain was too obvious Pain made people lie, anything to make it stop.

Pleasure, however.  Pleasure, you wanted to continue. Pleasure was a reward.

“...yeah.”  But his voice was uneven, his breath catching in his chest as though her voice was a teasing caress.  

She gave a smile, a little vulpine, perhaps, stepping around the table, closer, until he could feel her presence like a palpable thing, raising his lowered head to meet her eyes. “It would be...unwise to prevaricate,” she purred, the heel of her hand moving to rub down against the fly of his jeans, where she could already feel his cock stirring, pushing against her touch.  

He sucked in a sharp breath, almost like an inverted hiccup, his body twitching back against the frame. “Not lying.”  He squirmed. “Just didn’t want to die.”  And, if he was honest, he hated Carlyle. But he had no idea about the fucking code, not till Spider’d gotten to it.  

“Mmm.”  A non-committal sound. She kneaded, squeezing his length between her thumb-pad and palm, fighting to mask the laugh.  There was so very little to enjoy in her job, really, so she took it where she could.  

There were precious few other perquisites of the job.

“I suppose that is a concern for your kind. Dying.”  And maybe, she added silently, that made life seem more intense, more precious.  Then again, she’d seen his files.  He was a thug, casually violent, no education, no prospects. She couldn’t imagine he’d want to live, without a future worth anything.

Still, he had some use now, at least as entertainment, until she found a way to get the program out of his head.  

“Yeah,” he said, distracted, trying to concentrate between the conflicting noise in his head of the sudden reminder--which he didn’t really need--of the radiation, killing him like something chewing him with slow, heavy jaws, and the hard buzz of arousal, like life trying to reassert itself, one last time. “Look, you can fucking have it. I just want…”

His voice trailed off as her small fingers slipped under the waistband of his jeans, and he felt the sudden release as she tugged the buttons of the fly open.

“You want,” she prompted, almost smirking, pushing the denim aside, and he felt the cool air against him.  She gave a soft sound, like approval, looking down, freeing him from the jeans, her hands warm and sure, pulling his cock free with one long slow upward pull, and he felt his hips lifting, following the motion, almost helpless at the rush of need in his belly.  He could see the swing of her hair, forward, as she looked down, then back as she looked up to his face, and her pale, sleek, manicured fingers around the darker skin of his dick.

“Look,” he said, almost panting, forcing the words out slowly. “I just...five minutes.”  A thick swallow. “Five minutes in a medbed and you can have--do--whatever you want.”

One corner of her mouth pulled up. “Or, I could do whatever I want, right now.”  Like this, the heat of him in her hands, the way his whole body was taut with arousal, the little clear bead of fluid swelling at the tip of his cock. It wouldn’t take long: the aphro drug in his veins would insure that, even if nothing else.  

She caught his gaze, trailing one index finger in that clear droplet of fluid, smearing it around the head, feeling her own thrill as she watched his face, his mouth fight some intent expression, the way his shoulder muscles tightened and bulged under the thin t-shirt.  

“...this?”  

She didn’t feel obliged to answer him, at least not in words.  That was part of it, too, the power, not needing to answer questions if she didn’t want to.  And this other part was the control of his body, the way she could make that respond to her touch, to her voice if she wanted to, despite what his mind might want.  

And his body wanted her: she could feel the throb of the veins against her palm, the tremor across his thighs, the way his eyes squeezed shut, trying to concentrate on something.  He could feel the pressure build in his belly, like a living thing, squirming and insistent, sending throbs of sensation through him. He could feel his whole body tense, his breath ragged, uneven, hands curling into helpless fists against their bonds.  It seemed the harder he tried to fight it, to pull himself out of it, the more insistent it was, the hotter it ran through his veins. All he could think of was coming, of the hard release building through his body, of how it would spatter over the sheeny silk of her light-colored suit jacket.  He could almost smell it, half-bleachy, half-musk, as though it had already happened, even as he felt it still building, roiling in his belly.

Max gave a sharp hiss, a serpent’s sound, trying to jerk back, pull himself free, but he couldn’t, and part of him didn’t want to.  Still, the sound was a warning, and she took it, one hand shifting to focus on the underside of the cock’s head, thumb tracing fast little circles, while the other traced fingernail lines, the slick of the enamel on her nails down the shaft, to press where the cock joined his body, just above the tightening skin of his balls.

His body seemed to arch off the frame, spine lifting like a bridge, head falling back, mouth open.  It was like everything had been rerouted somehow, and the release, instead of pouring from his belly, seemed to force backwards, suffuse through his whole body like light and heat and a shimmering sort of energy. Even the cry that tore from his throat was backwards, an inhalation turned into a groan, instead of an exhale, leaving him wrung out, chest heaving, straining against the metal bolts, sweat stinging in the wounds.  

“This,” she said, finally, her voice thick and sweet like honey, her eyes heavy and sated, and he followed their gaze down to his cock, where one solitary white droplet traced a sluggish line down the head, to meet the squared tip of her thumbnail.

It took him a long moment, dullheaded and slackjawed, twitching at her lingering touches to his cock, to find the thread of the conversation again.  Not that it helped: he still had no idea why: why she’d want this from him.

He probably wouldn’t be able to understand the answer--how the mix of power and control and his size and mass, what a common, brutal, wonderful animal she thought of him as, well-muscled, healthy, smelling like a man, instead of a host of selected, personally compounded perfumes, how the sight of his sweat, and the scars, and the sun-darkened features stirred something in her.  

  
He wouldn’t understand, and she wouldn’t bother to explain, raising her hand to cradle behind his neck, two fingers tweaking the cable on his neck. For a moment, wild and dizzying, he thought she was going to kiss him, her sculpted lips on his own, her pale, taut skin against his sun roughened face.  He could taste her breath, she was so close, and like her it was aloofl and sterile and ruthlessly beautiful, he could feel his heat radiate and almost bump against her coolness, her blue eyes like icy versions of the Earth he’d held in the locket for three decades.  “And now, Max Da Costa.” And she seemed to taste the name like a trophy, like he belonged to her now.  “Let’s discuss the code.” 


End file.
